Like Your Father
by Arvanion
Summary: Their mother's face and voice are just as they remembered, even after years of separation. Written for Chrobinweek 2015. (Cross-posted from AO3.)


Whatever they'd been expecting, it wasn't this.

Lucina and Morgan made their way through the Dragon's Table, the torchlight flickering off of their reddened blades as they cut down all in their path. Both fought in silence, their faces set in detached expressions. They were used to the howls of Risen and the falling dust as the beasts dissipated, but now they were fighting other human beings. Perhaps they were sworn to Grima, but they were still people.

To Morgan and Lucina, every scream of pain from their enemies-every cry for their god to avenge them-was a reminder of the ones that they hadn't been able to save.

"The shrine... should be just... ahead," Lucina said, breathing heavily. She glanced over at her little brother. "Doing all right?"

"Nothing that a vulnerary won't fix," said Morgan, grimacing. Blood dripped like tears down the left side of his face, flowing gradually from a shallow cut on his scalp and splashing tiny spots of red on the tiled floor. "Let's keep moving."

"If you say so." They rounded a corner, hearing shouts of pursuit from behind them as a group of Grimleal chased after them. "They don't give up easy, do they?"

"Leave it to me. I'll give them something to think about." Morgan raised his Thoron tome and directed a bolt at the ceiling behind them, raking its way through the supports and bringing a large section crashing down into the corridor. There were muffled shouts from behind the rubble, but both ignored them as they resumed their advance.

"Do you think it's really true... that they're keeping mother here?" said Morgan after a moment. There was a note of hope in his voice that was almost painful to Lucina. "That she's still alive?"

"I pray that she is," said Lucina, her hand tightening around the hilt of Falchion. "We need her back."

It had been six years since the two had received the news of their father's death. Lucina had been twelve, and Morgan two years younger, when the Falchion had been returned to the capital. The circumstances of Chrom's passing were unclear, but one thing was for certain: his wife had also gone missing, and was presumed to have perished with her husband.

Then, two months ago, an Ylissean spy, gravely wounded, had returned to the capital with news that their mother was alive-in the clutches of the Grimleal, but alive nonetheless. The others had advised caution, telling Morgan and Lucina that they shouldn't rush in recklessly, or they would put themselves in danger. Morgan and Lucina had disagreed. They knew that their mother would have done the same for them. They left Ylisstol that night.

And now, they made their way down the final corridor, the towering doors of the shrine in front of them. There were no guards: either they had been sent away, or they had fled in panic at the sounds of combat coming from further down. Lucina turned to her younger brother. "Ready?"

"Ready."

The doors were flung open by a blast of magic, and the siblings rushed in with raised weapons, ready to fight the moment they came in.

Instead, they were greeted with a cavernous silence.

 _ _So this... this is where father died.__

The room was massive, with a high ceiling and pillars lining either side. The only light in the room was a single, unflickering orb behind the throne, casting long shadows toward the door. If they squinted, they could make out the shape of a figure in a tattered coat huddled at the foot of the throne, chains trailing from wrists and ankles.

" _ _Mother__!" Morgan shouted, running forward. He sheathed his sword without bothering to wipe the blood off, leaving a long red smear dripping from the scabbard.

Robin, her eyes disoriented, looked up as her son knelt down next to her. "M-Morgan?" she said, voice weak and hoarse. "Is it... are you really...?"

"It's me, mom!" Morgan said, almost choking on his words as tears welled up in his eyes. "Lucina and I came as soon as we heard."

"Morgan, you..." Robin felt tears of her own as she looked into her son's face. "You look so much like your father..." She coughed, an ugly racking sound that made her entire body shake. "You've gotten so big since..." Her sentence trailed off.

"Have they kept you here all this time?" demanded Lucina, righteous rage in every line of her body. "Chained up like some sort of animal?"

"I'm afraid I haven't been... a cooperative guest..." said Robin, with a laugh that turned into another string of coughing. "Did you come here... alone?"

"We came here for you," said Lucina. "We couldn't just leave you behind."

"Oh, Luci..." said Robin, turning her filthy, tear-streaked face to her daughter. "That's just what your father would have said. You both take after him, so much."

"Hey, mom, give yourself some credit too," said Morgan. "You never left a friend behind, either." He stood, looking at the chains. "I don't know how to pick locks, but maybe I can blast them apart..."

"No!" Robin's voice suddenly grew louder, almost panicky. "No," she repeated, softly. "You can't... you need to leave me here."

Her children stared. "Mom, what do you mean?" said Morgan, eyes wide with shock. "We can't-"

"We're not going to leave our mother in the hands of these monsters!" said Lucina, cutting her brother off. "You can't ask us to do that."

"You don't understand-" Robin began, her voice cracking, but her children weren't about to let her sacrifice herself. Lucina brought Falchion down once, twice, thrice, four times, severing each chain with a loud ringing noise. She took her mother's hand and helped her to her feet, draping one of Robin's arms around her shoulders and taking up her mother's weight with surprising strength.

"Come on, mother, we'll get you out of here," she said, reassuringly.

Her chains were gone. She was __free__.

Her eyes stung with helpless tears. She knew what happened next.

Her children's voices faded from hearing, just as her husband's had those six years ago.

Her chest shook with another bout of coughing, and she heard their voices, frantic, distorted, asking her if she was all right. Just like Chrom had.

Her fist clenched around a bolt of lightning, and she drove it upward as the world went red.

Grima held up her hand, smiling with satisfaction at the blood soaking into her glove.

"They take after you, my love," she said to the empty air.

Only cavernous silence answered her.


End file.
